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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29388534">always in love</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/macsdennis/pseuds/macsdennis'>macsdennis</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Emma - Jane Austen, Emma. (2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Modern AU, can work as a stand-alone but is set in the silly things au, emma woodhouse deserves happiness, george knightley is wonderful, i still can’t tag, sequel to my previous emma fic, so would recommend reading that first</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 08:06:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,075</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29388534</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/macsdennis/pseuds/macsdennis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>almost ten years after the airport, we take a look into the life of emma woodhouse-knightley</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>George Knightley/Emma Woodhouse, Robert Martin/Harriet Smith</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Babe, where did you put the white wine?”</p><p>“It’s in the fridge!”</p><p>Emma opened the door to the fridge and saw three bottles of her favourite sauvignon-blanc nestled in the door and smiled to herself slightly morosely. Only three out of the party of four tonight would be able to enjoy the drink. </p><p>Emma could hear the shower running from the other side of the apartment, and padded across the hardwood floor with bare feet to reach the bathroom. The glass screen was already fogged up with steam, but she could make out the blurry silhouette of her husband washing his hair. She wiped the steamy mirror and gave her reflection a cursory glance. </p><p>Sometimes Emma missed how she looked in her twenties, when her hair was at his thickest and her skin was completely line and blemish-free. At thirty, she was by no means old, or even remotely middle-aged (although her thirtieth birthday had been accompanied with some sort of morose shadow that made her feel decrepit). However, Emma Woodhouse was no wilting flower, and, by God, she knew it. Perhaps not in the slightly self-centred, egotistical way that her younger self did, but Emma knew that she was still very beautiful. Her hair was the same shade of gold it had always been, but in recent years she had favoured a slightly shorter cut, just reaching her shoulders. Her freckles had faded slightly over time, and there were a few shallow lines around her eyes that Emma sometimes found herself pressing to try and get rid of. George liked them, anyhow. He said they were sexy.</p><p>Emma smiled to herself, this time not hiding the lines that crinkled around her eyes. More importantly, she reflected, she was a much nicer person than she was at twenty years old. And that was obviously no bad thing.</p><p>“What time are they coming?”</p><p>Emma turned away from the mirror to see her husband stepping out the shower, hair darkened with water and dripping, in a cloud of steam, feeling a pleasant rush of desire in her body as he wrapped a fluffy towel around his waist. Even after ten years of dating and three years of marriage, George Knightley still managed to excite Emma like they were a new couple again. </p><p>“In about half an hour, so you’d better get ready quick.” Emma turned back to the mirror and dug a lipstick out of the pocket of her jumpsuit, until she felt a warm, damp body press up against hers. George stood behind her, wrapping his strong arms around her waist. She hit his arm playfully, giggling as he kissed her neck. “George! Get off, you’re all wet, this is fresh out the dryer.”</p><p>“Mmm, it’s lovely.” He mumbled into her bare neck, his lips brushing her skin. “That green really suits you.”</p><p>Reluctantly, she peeled him off, before turning to face him again and giving him a quick kiss on the lips. His face, too, was slightly lined. George favoured shorter hair now he was older, curls no longer brushing the length of his neck, but he still retained that boyish charm in his face that Emma knew so well. “Go and get dressed,” she reprimanded. “You know what Harriet’s like, they’ll probably be here early.”</p><p>“You’re the boss.” As George turned to leave the bathroom, he popped his head back in briefly. “Your jumpsuit‘s damp.”</p><p>“Go away!” </p><p>*</p><p>The kitchen and dining area was warm and cosy as Emma bustled around, laying out the food that George had prepared. In the last decade, Emma’s cooking abilities had not improved very much. She rarely ventured beyond what George derisively called ‘student meals’ - spaghetti bolognese, cheese toasties, the occasional baked potato. But George was a wizard in the kitchen, able to conjure up the most delicious dishes seemingly out of nothing. Emma set the beautifully roasted chicken, the fragrant vegetables and Rob’s lovingly prepared vegetarian dish down onto the table, looking at them proudly as if she had cooked them herself. </p><p>Chet Baker’s saxophone sounded mournfully from the speaker next to the huge microwave, a Christmas gift from a few years ago courtesy of Isabella, just after they had moved into the small London flat. As Emma checked the kitchen for any final dusting or wiping that needed to be done, she thought how funny it was that she, small-town Emma Woodhouse from Highbury, should now be a faithful London woman. She loved London, fell in love with it almost as soon as she and George made the decision to move. The bustle, the people, the constant changes, even the over-crowded and often stressful tube - it was everything that she had ever wanted at the age of twenty without realising it. And it was expensive, sure, but George’s job as a government social research officer paid well, and the coffee shop was a raging success. </p><p>Feeling slightly bittersweet, Emma reminisced on her days in Hartfield, with the irritating but lovely Miss Bates, the same customers every day. Pestle &amp; Mortar, the shop she owned, was her pride and joy, a popular coffee haunt for indie students and harried families alike. Emma even had a new employee that had begun the week before who reminded her of Harriet - earnest, innocent and entirely adorable. </p><p>“Everything looks great, Em.”</p><p>George appeared from round the corner, his hair still slightly damp, clad in smart black trousers and an open-collared grey shirt. Emma had seen that shirt on a few occasions, and it was one of her favourites. It always reminded her of a particularly racy night in Paris, where a few buttons had had to be mended the next morning. </p><p>“Thanks.” She smiled at her husband, taking a bottle of wine out of the fridge and fetching a glass from the shelf. “Although I don’t know why we go to all this trouble, it isn’t like the Queen is coming round.”</p><p>“Still, it’s nice to spruce the place up a bit.”</p><p>Emma handed the full glass to George, which he accepted gratefully. Then, he seemed to notice the longing expression on her face, and smiled ruefully. “You know, they’ll probably notice that you’re not drinking.”</p><p>Emma shook her head. “I don’t think so. Harriet isn’t that observant, and I think we’ll literally have to spell it out for Rob before he clocks anything.”</p><p>George took a step towards his wife, placing his glass down on the table. Emma wound her arms around his neck, feeling his large hands encircle her waist, and was suddenly reminded of their first kiss - first proper kiss - inside his old flat in Highbury.</p><p>“I can’t believe our kid is in there.” George’s eyes crinkled up as he gazed down at Emma’s flat stomach, which they both know would soon begin growing.</p><p>“I know. I can’t wait to tell them.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>HI EVERYONE </p><p>i just couldn’t leave this alone so here you go!!! two chapters of pure future fluff </p><p>love to you all xx</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Robert grinned and rubbed his stomach. “That was delicious, George, thank you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Emma slapped his arm in mock playfulness. “That’s so rude, how do you know it wasn’t me that cooked all of this?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You forget, Woodhouse, that I’ve seen you in a kitchen before. You can barely make toast without burning it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">George chuckled and Harriet took her friend’s hand sympathetically. “It’s okay, Em, you make the best coffee.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Very true. And that’s Woodhouse-Knightley to you, Bob.” Emma grinned and took a self-righteous sip of her sparkling water. She had been right - neither Harriet nor Robert had noticed anything yet. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The evening had been absolutely lovely. It was difficult to arrange times when all four of them were free - George worked a lot, with long, tiring hours, and Emma’s cafe was open every day apart from Sundays. Harriet’s job as an English teacher kept her busy with marking and lesson planning most of the time, and Rob’s position as the head of the music department (at the same school as Harriet, adorably) was much the same. They lived on the outskirts of London, whereas George and Emma were more central, so visits and plans were infrequent - but Emma thought that the distance and time between the two couples made their time together even more enjoyable. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Whilst the winter wind whistled outside and smatterings of grey rain hit the windows, the flat was warm and bathed in golden light from the fairy lights that Emma had strung up on the walls. The music was soft and gentle, and the food had all been finished. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">George suddenly drained his glass and seemed to remember something. “Oh, guys, I completely forgot. Em found a load of photos and videos from her old phone, back in Highbury! We’ve put them on a little slideshow, maybe it would be fun to have a look at them?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Harriet laughed. “Oh, my God! Yes please.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They all rather drunkenly - apart from Emma - piled into the small living room, Emma, George and Harriet on the large squashy sofa, Robert in the armchair nearest the television. Whilst George set up the slideshow device, Emma scrolled through the most recent pictures of the kids that Isabella had put on Facebook.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh my gosh!” Harriet squeaked at Emma’s phone, looking at a particularly adorable picture of all five of them on Halloween, the two youngest of the bunch dressed up as ghosts for trick or treating. “Lord, how old are they now?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The twins are ten, Bella is thirteen, Hen’s fifteen and Little John is almost seventeen! He’s doing his mock exams this year.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Rob shook his head incredulously. “I can’t believe it, it seems like only yesterday they were little pipsqueaks.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know,” Emma smiled, putting her phone away. “The twins should still be in buggies.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How’s Isabella doing?” Harriet enquired, gladly accepting a top up on her wine as George offered her the bottle. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“She’s great, actually.” George replied as he sat down heavily. “Don’s really good for her, and Emma’s dad loves him, which is obviously important.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Emma nodded in agreement. “And he’s great with the kids, too. He’s giving Bella piano lessons at the moment.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How sweet!” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After the divorce, Isabella had been at a strange crossroads, all at once blissfully happy that she and John were separated, and permanently stressed that she was now a jobless single mother. Moving herself and the kids back in with Mr. Woodhouse had been a good idea (for Emma, as well - she knew they would look after each other to the best of their abilities), but it was five years before Isabella put herself out into the dating world again. Then Don had come along, a senior manager at the new hotel receptionist job that Isabella had tentatively applied for, and everything had been going wonderfully. He was everything that John hadn’t been - intelligent, sensitive, caring, soulful. Emma and George liked him very much, as did Mr. Woodhouse, and the kids simply adored him. They still saw their father fairly frequently, usually when George drove up to visit him, but it was clear that Don was their new father. Emma had first met him over Skype, whilst her and George were staying in Thailand, and even through the grainy quality of the laptop camera, Emma could see how happy her older sister finally was. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Here we go!” George clapped his hands together and passed the television remote to Emma, leaning back and picking up his wine glass. “These are all from, like, a decade ago? I don’t think they’re in any particular order.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, God.” Robert guffawed and covered his face. “Look at my hair!” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The first photo was a blurry candid shot of Robert’s old band on stage, a picture that Emma remembered taking. Robert’s hair was, indeed, very funny to look at now. It was long and dark, flying above his head like some sort of anti-halo as he crashed his drumsticks down.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Was that New Year’s Eve?” Harriet wondered aloud. Emma nodded and clicked onto the next picture. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Jesus...”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s the picture you showed Philip!” Harriet squealed and pointed at the screen. “Remember, Em? When we first started seeing each other?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Wanker.” Emma and George both spoke at the same time, then grinned at each other.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What’s Elton even up to, nowadays?” Robert asked, furrowing his dark eyebrows.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He’s married, according to Facebook, to some florist. Two kids.” Emma replied. “Still in Highbury, still at the Church, except he’s a vicar now.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Wow.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s a nice picture, actually.” Emma continued. Harriet was grinning straight at the camera, drink in hand, her hair curly and wild, her skin golden in the light of the pub. Emma was looking away, clearly in the middle of a conversation, blonde hair swept up on top of her head. “We look so young.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We were young. I look like a baby!” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Emma clicked again.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A picture of her, Dixie and Perry outside a club.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Frank Churchill with three cigarettes in his mouth.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A candid of Mr. Woodhouse sat in front of the fire. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">George covered in mud from a gardening job, being hosed down by Isabella in the garden. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">All five of the kids at Christmas, huddled on the sofa in their pyjamas. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Emma and George before his graduation ball, smiling self-consciously at the camera. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A tense photo of Isabella and John at an Indian restaurant they all went to for Emma’s twentieth birthday.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A selfie of Emma and Harriet outside the café in their black uniforms. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Robert with his arm around Harriet outside the pub, her curly head barely reaching his shoulder.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, Em...” Harriet breathed out. “That’s gorgeous.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A picture of Emma sat on her windowsill, her long hair twisted into a bun, wearing a large blue shirt of George’s, looking away from the camera out into the sunny garden. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I took that without you knowing.” George said softly, reaching out to take his wife’s hand. “You just looked so beautiful.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She smiled at him gently. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Harriet prised the remote out of Emma’s hand and clicked again, but this time a video began playing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What’s this?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The footage was slightly warped and grainy, but soon sorted itself out as the picture became clearer. Robert squinted, then smiled.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s your wedding video!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The footage was three years old, but it suddenly seemed like the wedding had happened only yesterday. Emma could practically feel it in her bones: the bubble of nerves in her stomach as she took her father’s frail arm; the smell of the white roses decorating the aisle; the squeaks of suppressed sobs from Miss Bates, wedged into a front pew; the light, silky feel of the dress against her back.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The tears in George’s eyes that he quickly tried to wipe away as she moved towards him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, Em, look!” Harriet cocked her head and cooed at the screen. The video was slightly shaky - was it Isabella that had filmed it, or some distant uncle from her mother’s side? - but Emma was as clear as day, walking next to her father, a swathe of white silk following in their path. The camera moved around to George, clad in a beautifully tailored dark great suit, a sprig of white flowers in his lapel, his hair curly and golden in the light coming from the stained glass window above him. Highbury church was a beautiful building anyway, but Emma had never seen it look more gorgeous than on the day of her wedding.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It had been the right thing to do, to get married in her home town. She knew it in her heart. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She could feel eyes on her, and turned to see George looking at her over the top of Harriet’s head, the most tender expression on his face. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He mouthed: “I love you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Never in all of her years of living had Emma Woodhouse ever thought that she would experience the sort of love that George Knightley gave to her until it actually happened, until she finally realised that it had been there all along. Throughout their years of bickering and enmity which turned slowly into friendship, generosity and love, it had always been there. He had always been the one. In Highbury, in Portugal, in Thailand, in France, in Barcelona, in London, the love had stayed and grown even stronger.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And Emma knew that it always, always would. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I love you, too.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The video suddenly switched and the screen was darker, strobe lights flashing everywhere, the sound crackling: the after party. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Robert chuckled loudly. “Jesus, look at that!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Harriet blushed and groaned; the camera focused in on the dance-floor where a slightly younger Harriet, clad in a pale pink bridesmaid dress, was performing some sort of drunken, bacchanalic dance by herself, surrounded by laughing onlookers. George and Emma were in the crowd, watching and whooping, Emma’s wedding dress hiked up around her knees.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I got so drunk that night!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know, I had to carry you back to the hotel room.” Robert grinned at his girlfriend. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, look, there’s Little John!” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Little John was dancing with his aunt slightly self-consciously, trying not to step on her satin shoes, his hair swooping down to his stiff collar, a huge, toothy grin on his face. His little sister and brother were mimicking the dance, kicking their little legs out. George and Isabella occasionally danced on screen, and once, George dipped his sister-in-law so low, her dark hair nearly touched the floor. The video jumped once again to a clip of Frank Churchill, clearly very drunk, singing some old ballad on the karaoke machine, shirt tails hanging out haphazardly. Dixie and Taylor performing a aggressive-looking rehearsed dance; Mr. Woodhouse slow dancing with Emma; Robert reluctantly being pulled from his seat by Harriet; Miss Bates throwing her shoes into the air and jiving her way across the room. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The video ended abruptly on a rather unflattering still of Georgiana’s face. Emma giggled and turned off the television. Harriet wiped her eyes merrily. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Gosh, that was brilliant.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Robert sipped his wine and spoke. “Did you not record the speeches? I remember they were both gorgeous.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” Emma shook her head, smiling softly. “We wanted to keep them for the people that were there, you know? We didn’t need them recorded. They’re too special.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">
    <em>“Um, hi everyone. First of all, I wanted to thank you all for coming. It really means the world to both of us, all of you have made this day so very special, and I know George and I will remember it for the rest of our lives, however long those may be... probably not much longer, to be honest, it is a free bar after all! I know it’s rather untraditional for the bride to make a speech on her wedding day, but it’s my day, damn it, and I want to be the centre of attention! No, but in all seriousness, I couldn’t let the evening pass without saying all of this. And I promise I’ll try to the best of my ability to get through this little speech without breaking down into tears, but I can’t make any promises for George. Oh, I see Harriet’s crying already! Someone get her a tissue, for the love of God. So, where do I begin? Well, as most of you may know, George Knightley and I met when we were very young, in the height of summer at a garden party. I think it’s safe to say we didn’t have the best of starts... you’re all laughing now, but he was a nightmare back then! I mean, so was I- no, Dad, don’t shake your head, you know I was. So, we met very young, and from there it went just like a movie... a horror movie. Endless childish pranks, arguments ending in tears, reluctant family trips where we would be thrust together against our will. But, bless George, he was a sweetheart. He looked after me when I was sick, endured my whining, even let me hang out with his infinitely cooler older friends. And then he went off to university, and I pretended not to miss him. Then he went off travelling, and I pretended yet again not to miss him. I feel like I was the last person to know that George and I loved each other. It was always there, I suppose, it just took us a few years to figure it out. About eleven years, I think. When people ask how George and I met, I tell them the truth: we grew up together. George has always tried to bring out the best in me, and I like to think that he’s succeeded in that mission. He’s helped me to grow into a better person. He is the kindest soul that I’ve ever met, he is the most creative chef with the driest sense of humour and the worst taste in wine. He brings me flowers every Sunday morning, he has an eye for photography, he’s read every book in our flat, and he is the best partner that anybody could ever dream of meeting. So, when he finally plucked up the courage to ask me to marry him, just over a year ago, the answer was obvious: I said, very loudly and with my mouth full of delicious prawns from our favourite restaurant in Paris, “what the fuck?” - sorry to any children in attendance, Isabella has a murderous look in her eye. But, of course, I said yes. And here we are now. I could not be more grateful for the man sat next to me this evening. My best friend, my husband, my... my love. Now please, before I start crying and embarrass myself, will you all raise your glasses to my perfect, wonderful husband, Mr. George Knightley-Woodhouse?” </em>
  </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Harriet sighed. “You’re right, actually. They were both great, and Em, yours was just divine, from what I can remember.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m surprised you heard any of it,” Robert laughed. “You were crying so much I thought you’d drown in your own tears.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As Harriet leaned over to reply to her boyfriend, George suddenly caught Emma’s eye. She knew what his expression meant - maybe it was time for Harriet to cry even more. Emma nodded infinitesimally, and George cleared his throat. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Um, guys.” He stood up rather self-consciously, made a movement like he was going to sit down again, then decided just to pick up his empty wine glass. Emma watched him twisting it nervously in his large hands and felt a thrill of excitement in her stomach. “There’s, uh, another reason we asked you both round tonight. Obviously for, uh, the food and the company, and the pictures of course, but, um, we-“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Emma stood up; she could see the exact expressions that she had expected on the couple’s faces - Robert looked completely lost, whilst Harriet looked like she was on her way to working out the surprise and might burst at any moment. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Basically.” Emma took a deep breath. “I... I’m pregnant.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A heavy pause. Then- </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In a flurry of movement, Harriet shot up from her seat and launched herself at Emma and George, her tiny form pulling them both into a bone-crushing hug. Her curly hair was obscuring Emma’s vision, but she could hear the gasping sobs coming from Harriet’s mouth.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I knew it, I knew there was something, oh my God this is amazing, I’m so- oh my, I’m just, I’m so-“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Robert stood up heavily, shaking his head and smiling. “Congratulations, guys. That’s just... wow. How far along are you?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“About two months.” Emma said, extracting herself from Harriet who sniffed and was drawn into a side hug by Robert. “We haven’t told anyone else yet, we’re travelling down to Highbury in a week’s time so Dad will find out then.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Harriet sniffed again, wiping her eyes. “This is... incredible. A baby. Have you thought of names yet?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">George laughed. “Hold your horses, Smith, we don’t even know if it’s a boy or a girl yet.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Robert nudged Emma’s arm gently. “I was wondering why you weren’t drinking.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She placed a hand over her stomach and smiled. “I’d better get used to it for the next seven months, I guess.” She suddenly felt George squeeze her hand; he looked at her with wide eyes and nodded subtly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ah. Of course - how could she have forgotten? </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, there’s something else, as well.” Emma waited until Harriet had wiped her eyes fully before continuing, a huge grin on her face. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We’d like you both to be godparents.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“OH MY-“ </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I GIVE YOU ALL THE FLUFF</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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